


That Old Wedding Thing

by recoveringrabbit



Series: A Love Story With Detective Interruptions [3]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, SO MUCH FLUFF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2015-10-02
Packaged: 2018-04-24 09:50:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4914874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recoveringrabbit/pseuds/recoveringrabbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The morning of the most momentous day of their lives (thus far), FitzSimmons shares a cup of early morning tea.</p><p>A one-shot from MBM AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Old Wedding Thing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [everyl1ttleth1ng](https://archiveofourown.org/users/everyl1ttleth1ng/gifts).



> In one of the comments on Murder By Mistake, everyl1ttleth1ng pleaded for more tea and slippers and sweaters. Since this had basically written itself in my head before I finished her sentence, I was happy to oblige.

The first thing Jemma knew, before she even opened her eyes, was that she was happy.

No, that was imprecise. She wasn’t _happy_ , she was ecstatic, euphoric, downright giddy. The gladness coursing through her felt like her heart was pumping gold rather than blood; it was strong enough to have waked her on its own without the sun pouring in the windows to turn ruby-red behind her eyelids. But the sun _was_ shining—of course it was!—and her room at Verinder Hall was bathed in its glow. She flung back the coverlet and ran to her window, throwing up the sash to peer out at the horizon. It was a perfect day: not a cloud in the sky; the grounds sparkling in the early morning dew; the gardens burst into bloom as if they were celebrating, too. Resting her elbows on the sill, she took a deep breath. It was odd to think she would never wake up to this view again. Next time she came to her parents’ home, she would be granted the courtesy of the larger room at the front of the house. With a sudden rush of memory as to _why_ , she blew an affectionate kiss to the world at large before whirling away from the window to dance across the room to her wardrobe. There was no possibility she would be able to sleep any more. Tea was the thing, and toast with butter, and sitting in the realization of the new glorious world that was about to begin.

Only two frocks hung there, both earmarked for events later that day, but happily Old Reliable had been left to hang neglected—on purpose, she suspected, as her mother had overseen the packing. She reached to the far back for the blue jumper Fitz loved and stroked its softness before pulling it on over her striped pajamas. No one would see her at this time of day, and she would be changing soon (if not soon enough). After putting on her slippers, she was about to sneak out when she saw a folded sheet of paper jammed halfway under her door. She snatched it up eagerly.

_Simmons,_

_I know I’m not allowed to see you until later, but that doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about you every second. Have a good morning— only six hours to wait._

_More love than the mass of the sun,_

_Fitz_

Six hours! Then he must, miracle of miracles, already be awake. She had a fleeting moment of worry that he would get cross before the end of the day without his preferred nine hours of sleep, but dismissed it with the sure confidence that not even Fitz could be cross on this day of days. And if _he_ was awake and everyone _else_ was asleep, why was she still here? She knew where he would be. Now was likely the only opportunity they would have to be alone until it was all over, and wasting it would be intolerable.

She crept past her parents’ rooms and ran down the stairs, brushing past the long tables already set for the reception to follow. The study door was well-oiled in anticipation of the festivities and neither squeaked when she opened it or clicked when she closed it. Reclining with his back to the arm of the long green sofa that had replaced the leather wingbacks, he didn’t look up from the book in his lap; one knee swooped from side to side as he read, deep in the text and a cup of tea. She leaned back against the door to admire him. She missed the sandy curls he had worn when they first met—victim to his attempts to appear more professional—but loved the way his new haircut accentuated the line of his jaw. She could see the blue of his eyes from here as he scanned the pages, brow furrowed in concentration. One finger toyed with the corner of the page before turning it gracefully. She was absolutely besotted, she admitted to herself, and was hit with a breathless, baffling sense of déjà vu. Of course, she had done this before—stood in the doorway and watched him read in the early morning sun. He had been wearing that sweater then, too, a faded shabby twin of hers. But how could she feel like this had happened before? Then she scarcely allowed herself to imagine what was now her right; then she couldn’t have begun to realise what it would mean to love and be loved by him. Now she knew. _Everything_ was different. “You know I’m fond of your tuxedo,” she said into the silence, “but I think that jumper may be my favorite thing of yours.”

He started, dropping his book and bringing his socked feet to the floor. Then, inexplicably, he put both hands over his eyes. “How about the kilt I’ll be wearing later?”

“Of course I’ll love that, but for rather different reasons.” His smile pushed up his hands on his cheeks, but he still didn’t uncover his eyes. “Fitz. What are you doing? You look like the monkey who can see no evil.”

“I can’t look at you. It’s bad luck.”

He said it with perfect seriousness, the absolute darling, and she smiled fondly. “There’s no such thing as luck. Which you know, foolish man, because you’re a scientist and understand that everything has a cause.”

He nodded his head soberly. “Yes, exactly. So there must be something causing me to have you, and I’m not idiot enough to think I deserve it. Hence, luck. Or would you rather divine providence? That’s what my mother thinks it is.”

“Divine providence, certainly. Then there’s nothing stopping us from seeing each other now.”

“Except the wrath of our mothers.”

She began silently making her way across the room. “My mother, you mean—yours is a perfect peach. I think we both know who drew the good horses in the Future Relatives sweep.”

“I get Sir Robert,” he countered.

“I get Mr. Biggs.”

“He’s not—”

“No, but he’s as close as you’ve got.”

“Well,” he said, canting his face towards the sound of her voice, “I’m getting you. So I win.”

“Oh, Fitz.” For someone who was not especially eloquent, he had a startling knack for heart-stopping sentiments. She sat halfway on the couch beside him and pried his hands away from his eyes, holding them both in one hand so she could use the other to grasp his chin. It only took two soft kisses at the corner of his eyelid before he finally, finally looked at her, his gaze as blue as the sapphire on her finger and a hundred times as precious. Would she ever get used to how he looked at her, she wondered, or would she die of happiness first? “You _do_ deserve it,” she said. “If anything, I’m the one that’s lucky.”

He brought their clasped hands to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “We’ll never agree on this, I think.”

“Or can we agree that we’re equally lucky, if in fact such a thing exists, which is still an unsupported theory?”

“I can live with that.”

“Good, because in about five hours you’ll be vowing to do so in front of God and everyone we know.”

Falling back against the sofa dramatically, he groaned. “Five hours?”

She reached behind her to move the ornate volume he had dropped upon her entrance, not at all surprised to see _Philo. Nat. Princ. Math._ on the spine. “Oh dear, Newton? Are you worried about marrying me, after all?”

“Worried?” he repeated, not hearing her teasing tone. “Jemma, that’s probably the last thing I am.”

“What are you, then?” she asked mischievously, looking up through her eyelashes.

She knew. Of course she knew. But she wanted him to say it, to stammer and stutter his way through his feelings so she could better understand her own. They were too big for the words she had found so far, filling her chest so full she would suffocate were they not the very air in her lungs. But he didn’t even try.  Instead of relying on words—never their strong suit—he pulled her to him and utilised the other function of one’s mouth, telling her with every brush and slide of his lips against hers how excited he was, how impatient, how _grateful_. And she, one hand over his infinitely precious heart, told him back.

When they paused, it was only to smile into each other’s glazed and glowing eyes, foreheads still pressed together. _I love you_ , she told him.

 _More than anything_ , he said back, and pushed her hair behind her ear. “Newton is to keep me from checking the clock every five seconds. Time really crawls in second-long increments.”

She took the book up from her lap and snuggled back into the curve of his arm, tucking her feet up beside her. “I couldn’t sleep for thinking about it. May I join you?”

“What, read aloud?” he asked, curling his fingers around her shoulder.

“I think not. Do you want to wake the whole house?” They shook their heads in unison as she opened the book across both their laps. “But we might settle once and for all which of us truly has a faster reading speed.”

The competitive light that sprung to his eyes was almost strong enough to overwhelm the affection. “Wouldn’t do to begin our married life with something so important hanging over our heads.”

“No indeed.” She nodded seriously. “Are you going to pour me some tea?”

Without taking his arm from around her, he reached forward to pull the teapot closer. Then he stopped to look at her almost guiltily. “I didn’t think you would be coming, so there’s only one cup.”

“We’re surely not going to scruple about sharing tea. Not when we’re going to be sharing—”

“Yes,” he said, ears turning slightly red, “but tea is about the one thing we _can’t_ share, because of the—”

“—sugar.” She took hers milk only; his might as well have been a solid sugar lump. Contemplating leaving him in search of another cup, she decided it wasn’t worth leaving him even long enough to retrieve a whisky glass. “Compromise then: two lumps.”

“I can drink it without,” he said stoutly, but looked relieved when she told him not to be foolish. The tea poured out in a dark-brown stream, mingling with the milk and sugar to become a steaming khaki pool. He handed it to her for the first sip and held open the left half of Newton. “Say _turn_ when you’re ready, yeah?”

She nodded, wrinkling her nose at the tea’s sweetness. “I’m going to beat, you know.”

“No chance.”

The first few pages flew by, an even split between the times he drummed his fingers impatiently while she finished and those when she turned the page to an indignant squawk. But as the tea they passed between them warmed her bones and his thumb drew lazy circles against her arm, she stopped racing. The distraction of _Principia_ was unnecessary, really; his very presence was peace. Her riotous high spirits subsided in his company to something solemn and steady—just as deep, just as glad, but more sustainable. This kind of happiness, she thought, would stay long after her excitement wore off. Just like the wedding was only a short prelude to the rest of their lives, euphoria must give way to whatever one called this: joy, maybe. Or home.  But why bother trying to name it? It _was_. They _were._

Mind wandering, she didn’t notice that Fitz had stopped nudging her to turn the pages until a faint, whistling snore brought her attention to the present. She didn’t bother to bite back her fond smile. In a few years she might find the noise annoying, but right now it was simply another part of him that was hers alone to know and she would rather listen to it than nearly anything else. It couldn’t be comfortable, though, sleeping like that with his chin resting on his chest. There had to be something she could do. Gingerly pulling the book from his slack grip, she set it beside her with the half-full teacup on top. Her movements, small though they were, made him shift slightly in his sleep, just enough for her to pillow her head on his shoulder and draw his down to rest on hers. “Jem,” he said without opening his eyes, the sound muffled by her hair, “is it time yet?”

“No,” she said, taking his hand to keep her heart from bursting. “Sleep, Fitz.”

“Yes darling,” he muttered, and subsided again, unconsciously drawing her closer. She was too happy to correct him. Instead she snuggled in, breathing deep of his scent and watching their twined hands rise and fall with the movement of his chest. The matching blue of their jumpers blurred into each other—was that because they were the same sweater really or because everything that wasn’t him had turned hazy? Perfectly content, she let her eyes flutter closed and her breaths synchronise with his. _Less_ than five hours now.

Sir Robert, pondering the toast he was expected to give later, stopped short in the doorway to the study. It was already startling enough to see the new furniture his wife had insisted upon; coming upon his daughter and her fiancé asleep on the sofa was not what he expected at six o’clock in the morning. They were just fortunate he had been the one to find them and not Edith, who would have made a fuss about breaking tradition if she wasn’t too indignant at the way they nestled into each other, lines fuzzy where each old sweater began and ended. He ought to wake them, perhaps, and save them the row. It was a pity, though. Watching the blue light glint off Jemma’s ring as they breathed peacefully in unison, Sir Robert made a decision and backed out slowly, closing the door as quietly as possible. After all, they were being married today, and they were mostly upright and completely fully-clothed. There was nothing to fuss about. As for tradition, let it go hang. He would allow them to borrow this time from their new life. They were each other’s best luck, anyway.


End file.
